


To Belong

by potoyto



Category: 13 Reasons Why (TV)
Genre: Crushes, Extremely Dubious Consent, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Molestation, Not Canon Compliant, Pining, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Substance Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-05-14 16:42:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19277308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potoyto/pseuds/potoyto
Summary: Justin Foley was a downtrodden nobody from the wrong side of the tracks. Bryce Walker was a controlling narcissist who ruined everything and everyone he touched. Both being users in their own right, the bond they shared was always going to be their undoing. And in the end, the one who came out on top was really no great surprise to anyone.





	1. Persona Non Grata

I stand, staring at the utterly imposing Walker house from the street, anxiety bubbling in my stomach, my footing unsure. After a moment, I take tentative strides towards the door, peaking about the see if there are any lights on inside. Of course, there aren't. Of course, Mom _would_ kick me out on the one Saturday where Bryce isn't having one of his parties. I shake my head, rubbing the exasperation from my face and turning to look back out to the road, watching the nonexistent traffic. 

 

The night is warm, a fine mist settling in that’s really only apparent when I look down the stretch of road and see it illuminated by sapphire blue streetlamps. And now I have to laugh to myself, because I hadn’t noticed before, but even the streetlights in this area are extravagant. Under my hoodie, I can feel the sweat building up, drips running down my back, but still I make no move to take it off. A hoodie is like a security blanket, a thin shield of anonymity that’s hard to let go of. Blowing out a breath, I collapse back onto the middle stoop, pulling the phone out of my pocket. I stretch my back over the sharp angle of the step, making it pop, goosebumps pricking my skin at the sensation. Sitting up, I begin to restlessly tap my foot, staring down at the screen of my phone.

 

Well, technically, Bryce’s phone. I am only borrowing it long term, regardless of how insistent Bryce was that the phone is mine and I should keep it. I couldn’t just own something as nice as this phone, not in _that_ part of town, anyways. If it _is_ mine, it’s fair game. Mom could take it and sell it, trade it for more heroin. Street thugs could mug me for it, kick my ass and leave me with nothing but a bloody nose and a few less teeth. Even if it would help, how would I access the Track my Phone feature or even get any help retrieving my other things? People from my neighborhood don’t use things like computers and expensive smartphones. Those are just bargaining chips for drugs and sex.

 

If, however, it does still belong to the Walkers, suddenly it’s off limits. Then it, and I, can’t be touched; an ad hoc extension of privilege. Nobody where I’m from wants to fuck with the rich white people in the nice part of town. They can afford things like lawyers and computers to track down their expensive electronics, and police would sooner rush to their aid over a stolen phone than help anyone in my neighborhood with even the mildest of all the brutal shit that goes down on a daily basis. The bile grows thick in my throat thinking about it, and I have to cough to clear away the envy I feel, that Bryce can just _live_ here.

 

That shit is also a driving force for the anxiety I felt coming here, I felt it back when I used to visit more often, but never as bad as at this moment. Things haven’t been right between us for the last couple months, but thinking about that makes me too flustered and it’s only now I realize I’m picking gouges into the rubber casing on the phone.

 

Back when I used to visit more, it was always either by invitation during the day, or at night when the amount of lights and people coming and going made it plain and obvious to the neighborhood watch that there was a party going on. But now, I was alone, at night, with nobody around me. Just a scrawny 15-year-old kid from the bad part of town wearing a hoodie despite the warm summer night, and sitting with a large duffel bag outside an unlit house in a neighborhood where I really didn’t belong. Seems like the perfect recipe to getting the cops called if they weren’t already. I perk my head up, because I swear now I’m hearing a siren in the distance. I consider doubling my efforts at getting in touch with someone else and just making a break for it before the cops pull up. I mean, hell, if Bryce could be annoyed if I woke him up with my bullshit at this hour by just knocking on his door, imagine how much worse it could be if it was sirens and lights to drag all the neighbors into it too.

 

Getting impatient, I drag the list of messages down, prompting the app to refresh, but there’s nothing. Plenty of read receipts, but no replies. Opening one of the text prompts, I began typing out a continuation in the string of messages I had sent earlier, the intended recipient of this one in particular being Monty. After hitting send on the last message, I scroll up, making sure the messages had actually gone through, and also rereading to make sure I didn't come off sounding like a complete dick.

 

hey mont

i need ur help

nobody else is ansewerin

*answering

⚫ Sent: 11:22pm

 

u there

??

pleeeeeese

im sittin in the park on the swings

⚫ Sent 12:15am

 

pls dont make me have to ask bryce

⚫ Sent: 12:36am

 

well im startin to walk there

lmk if u decide to stop ignorin me

⚫ Read: 1:03am

 

i hope ur happy

im about to knock on his door at like 2am

if he gets pissed im gonna tell him to kick ur ass

⦿ Delivered: 1:47am

 

"So, you gonna come in or what?" 

 

I jump at his voice; it was just too unexpected for me not to. Turning to see Bryce standing in the doorway, staring at me, I knew he had to have seen my reaction. How long has he been standing there?

 

He looks tired, but there doesn’t seem to be a hint of sleepiness in his voice. Maybe he hasn’t gotten a chance to fall asleep yet?

 

_God, I’m an asshole._

 

Scrambling up off the front step, I reach down to grab my duffel bag but stop short of grabbing the strap. I can already see how this must seem by the arched brow on Bryce's face, and I feel my eyes start to itch with the shame.

 

"S-sorry, I, uh, I didn't wanna wake you, I know it's pretty late." I’m distracted by how hoarse my voice is, but not really all that surprised. Mom and I were screaming at each other for what felt like hours before I left. If anything, I shouldn’t have a voice at all after that.

 

Bryce is looking at me with a hint of concern now, and I know it has to be because of my voice. I can’t hold his gaze for long before I feel compelled to look off to the side. There’s something silvery in the hedges, but I can’t quite see what it is before Bryce is speaking again.

 

"Nonsense, you're family, Justy. You’re always welc-"

 

The buzzing of the phone catches Bryce off guard, cutting him off. Heatedly, I glance down to the screen.

(2) New Messages from mount-gummy

(1) New Message from zack-attack

(4) New Messages from scottyboy

 

"You know it's rude to start looking at your phone when you're having a conversation, right?" Bryce’s voice is terse, short. I felt my lips going dry the second the first intonation left his lips; by the end my mouth is an absolute desert.

 

"Sorry, I was messaging some people before I came here, of course they'd choose now to..." 

 

I unlock the phone, not knowing what else I should do, and a whole swarm of incoming messages bombards the homescreen. I navigate to the messaging app, skimming over the text previews. Most of my so-called friends are giving me shit for sounding like a needy bitch. There was some mention of Bryce that caught my eye, and I start scrolling through the notifications to find it, but it’s too buried. Parsing the messages from Scott, I can see it’s just him sending emojis of someone looking annoyed and then a couple of clocks. Getting the hint, I tap the button to back out to the main screen, and I have to do a doubletake when I saw Dempsey’s contact name toward the top of the list. I don't recall texting Zach, but there are now 2 messages from him sitting there in the inbox. Tapping on his texts, they hardly have a chance to load on the screen when Bryce interrupts me with a shove. 

 

 "Get **inside** , man. Come on, you're letting out all the air conditioning."

 

Bryce is all of a sudden behind me now, carrying my duffel bag and pushing me towards the door. I oblige as best I can. Taken by surprise as I am, I immediately trip over the top step and almost faceplant, just barely catching myself on the door frame. Another, considerably rougher shove from Bryce sends me stumbling through the door, and I don’t know what miracle it was that kept me upright.

 

“The fuck’s with the manhandling, dude?” I barely breathe the words and Bryce only acknowledges me with a shrug. I guess he just didn’t realize how rough he was being. And even if he did, it’s not like I don’t deserve it.

 

_Oh well, I guess._

 

Bryce closes the door behind us, the sound of the turning deadbolt echoing over the tile floor, and I am now very acutely aware of just how quiet the house is. It doesn’t quite sound right, and I know that’s probably due to the lack of company. Bryce and I don’t spend time alone together, especially not at his house, not since…

 

He turns to me, tossing the bag to the floor at my feet and I can’t help but scrunch my eyebrows at him for doing that. When I reach down to grab the bag, Bryce snatches the phone from my hand.

 

"My my, someone's popular tonight, aren't they?" He takes a moment to squint at the message on the screen and I have to fight to hold back my protest.

 

"Well I was casting a bit of a wide net, I really didn't wanna hafta bother you..."

 

"Anyways, as I was saying before you interrupted me," Bryce ignores what I said, shoving the phone into the pocket of his sweatpants. "You're always welcome here any time, Justy. Day or night." 

 

Bryce casts a beaming smile to punctuate the welcoming sentiment that I really don’t deserve. It makes my heart flutter like a swarm of bees in my chest, and I have to tell myself that I’m only blushing because Bryce had invaded my privacy by reading whatever message Zach had sent.

 

"Um, thanks... Am I gonna be allowed to have my- um… _your_ phone back at some point?"

 

The smile on Bryce's face fades, and I instantly feel even more like dirt watching his light die like that. I grab my left arm, trying to massage away the tension spreading through my whole body before giving up and just fumbling with the strap.

 

"I'm just saying, in case my mom calls..." 

 

Bryce winces at that, his face taking on a visage of exaggerated concern as he gazes into my eyes, and right then and there I want to die. I hate the way my best friend looks at me, the way his concern melts me completely. Fuck, I hate the way he _looks._ There’s no denying that Bryce was attractive, and hell did I find him so, but I could _never_ admit that to him.

 

Around two and a half months ago, I had started to realize I was, at least in some measure, gay, and that complicated things in so many ways I didn’t even think were possible. Next thing I know, I’m noticing every small gesture and movement from my childhood best friend as if there’s some sort of ulterior motivation to be found, and having intrusive fantasies about us kissing. Us! Practically brothers! _Kissing!_ I’d just about gagged the first time it happened, launching myself off my bed and out the door to the bathroom, the whole path littered with used needles, beer cans and empty pill bottles.

 

‘ _Not a fucking fag. I am NOT a fag!’_ I remember I repeated it like a mantra, staring myself down through bloodshot eyes, meeting my reflection in the broken mirror for at least an hour, gripping the grimy porcelain sink so hard my knuckles turned white. I had only thought it, of course. Fuck knows how Mom or her ‘dick du jour’ would react if she had overheard and found out her precious baby boy was having the thoughts of a little fucking cocksucker.

 

And now, suddenly, hanging out with Bryce isn’t as comfortable as it used to be. Suddenly, I’m noticing all the small things about Bryce that make me want him even more: the way his frame fills his clothes perfectly; the way the light shines off his breathtakingly green eyes; the way he looks when he has that goofy, shit eating grin on his face; the way his cologne just suits him _so fucking well_ and just makes me want to bury myself in that broad chest and forget about my miserable, pathetic fucking excuse for a life. But, aside from the overwhelming anxiety, abject fear of rejection, and the certainty of hopelessness, there’s one truth that rings out above all else and shines brilliantly: We’ve been friends practically our whole lives. There’s no way I could fuck up a friendship like that just because I, like the utter parasite I am, couldn’t be satisfied with everything Bryce had done for me already. And up until this point, I already thought I had. The fact that he let me into his home after what happened only two months ago, I feel like I’m getting a second chance here.

 

And let’s face it, of course I’d want more. It’s my nature; my breeding. Just the way it was Bryce’s nature to be as kind and caring and giving as he’s always been.

 

“Buddy, you know as well as I do your mom isn’t going to be calling. She’s probably doping up as we speak, maybe even OD’ing.”

 

Bryce finishes the statement with a light chuckle that I know others would interpret as cruel, but I know Bryce. Bryce would never make fun of something so sensitive, he just wanted to keep the tone light, that’s all. Bryce just doesn’t have it in him do be so abrasive, so crude. But why does it still feel like I’ve been slapped in the face? I’m not the one being insulted here, Mom is. She’s always the one chiding me for coming here, making her own presumptions as to what I do to ‘earn my keep’ during my extended stays. Of course, I can’t blame her, prostitution is nothing new to people like us. It’s only natural that would be the first thing to pop into her mind.

 

But Bryce and his parents aren’t like that. In fact, they’ve basically been the only positive influences in my life, giving me clothes, food and shelter when Mom couldn’t, and I know that’s where a lot of her resentment comes from. She can’t stand that she wasn’t allowed to fail by her own merits.

 

No, now there’s a scapegoat.

 

 _“Why don’t you just fuck off and stay with your rich family!”_ The venom was as clear even in memory. She blames them; I know just as much. She thinks if I stick around home more, we can figure something out, make something of ourselves and climb out of the shithole ghetto we call home. But no, I just want to skip out when shit gets rough. That’s the reason she does heroin, to escape the feeling of abandonment. Not because our lives are destined to be fucked forever. Not because she does just about anything and everything she can to score her next fix, as if that wasn’t the thing always first and foremost on her mind. Not like every move she makes spreads our roots in blighted soil and fucks up our lives even more, chaining us tighter and tighter to the rotten end of the stick that is poverty. It’s me; it’s always been me and my desperate need to escape my unavoidable fate, to cling to the side of Bryce fucking Walker and leave her behind to rot.

 

Bryce puts his hands up in surrender, and I realize I haven’t said anything for about 20 seconds now.

 

“Okay, okay, I get it, bro. Bad joke.” He laughs. Damn, I didn’t want to make him feel bad.

 

“No no, it’s good, man. I just… it’s been a long night.”

 

“I can see that. You look fucked up, man. When’s the last time you got some sleep?”

 

“Fuck, I don’t know. Like, a couple weeks ago? I mean, I’ve had a few naps here and there, but nothing really solid.”

 

“Damn, why didn’t you message me soon- …you wanna chill or something? I _was_ gonna try and hit the hay, but I guess I should probably stay up now that _you’re_ here.”

 

I swallow the lump in my throat, mumbling in agreement as I acquaint my sight with the tile floor.

 

Coming here was obviously a mistake. We both know why I haven’t come here sooner, and the way he ended that sentence tells me he’s not over it yet.

 

“I-I can leave if you want me to.”

 

“I’ll get us something to drink, just go sit on the couch and put on something to watch or... something.” He dismisses me without another word, walking off into another room and I comply with his request.

 

He must at least want to talk. Jesus, Foley, don’t fuck this up. Just talk to him and fix this relationship you fucked up so things can go back to the way they were.

 

_But can they?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Persona Non Grata - Ego Likeness
> 
> So this fic just sort of sprung up out of nowhere. I stumbled on this pairing by happenstance, and after exhausting the depressingly sparse collection here -if anyone could point me in the right direction to find more 13 reasons why fanfics I'd be extremely appreciative- I found myself wanting something that explored the beginnings of a toxic Bryce/Justin ship, but with the twist that Justy is actually little gay and has a crush on Bryce, making him blinder/more susceptible to Bryce's brand of narcissistic manipulation.
> 
> Feedback is definitely appreciated!


	2. Fire Breather

About 25 minutes pass as I sit in the living room, and by now I have fallen into a light slumber on the couch. It feels nice being able to zone out like this, to just put your head back and relax without having to worry about shit. Mom and her boyfriends can’t reach me here. The addicts and homeless people can’t find me here. A future of destitution and eventual drug addiction can’t weigh on me here.

 

My life can’t touch me inside these walls.

 

And despite zoning out, I do still have a distant awareness of my surroundings: the whirring of the obscenely luxurious fish tank which makes up almost the entire West wall, the near inaudible droning of late-night infomercials on the TV, the spray of the sprinkler system outside irrigating the pristinely kempt lawn, the clink of something in the other room following the sound of Bryce’s padding feet across the tile, subsequently silenced as he crosses over to the carpet. A shadow casts across my muted vision, and I open my eyes to confirm that, yes, he is standing over me, brandishing two fizzy drinks in his hands.

 

“There he is.” He purrs as he smiles down at me, watching as I rub the ever-present exhaustion from my darkened eyes. When I reopen them, I am almost surprised by his close proximity. At this distance, I can clearly see the definition of his muscles through the fitted tee. I don’t remember him being quite so bulky, and I lose all sense of self-awareness as I take in the changes. Damn, has he been working out more?

 

“Thirsty?”

 

He shakes the glass in his hand, lowering it to my eye level, and that’s when I realize we’re using the expensive crystal his mom keeps in the latched hutch for important guests instead of red solo cups. Hesitantly, I grip the hefty glass, mumbling a hazy thanks as he drops into the space beside me, arms spreading out over the armrest and back of the couch. He watches the glass in my hands with anticipation of some kind, but I want to wait to take a drink. It feels obscene to be drinking cola out of a glass worth more than my whole family, almost like a betrayal to my low-class lineage. I’m going to need a minute to mentally prepare before chancing a sip.

 

A question to stall for time; to calm my nerves.

 

“So… what’d you do over the last few weeks of school?”

 

Bryce grins at me, a wide, charming smile that tells of a pleasant memory, a story yet untold thrumming just beneath his tongue and waiting to be shared.

 

“I mean, you missed it, man. I threw a killer party to commemorate the occasion; lots of chicks, lots of fun.” He grins at the memory, and I already feel dejected, the feeling of missing out settling in me like a fever. And _there’s_ the disquieting flare, the gnawing feeling of shame that lingers tightly in my chest any time Bryce talks about girls, at least lately. I know it’s not his fault for being straight, for being into chicks, but it feels like a knife being twisted in my throat every time he makes a mention of it. But I suppose that’s just me being selfish. He shouldn’t have to censor himself just because I have these stupid emotions. I’ll just have to deal.

 

“You were invited, y’know,” he says, adopting a strangely solemn tone of voice. A tone so alien, I start doubting if the person thumbing the rim of his glass before me really is the same Bryce Walker I grew up with. He’s always been so confident, so sure of himself. Why does he sound like he’s dancing on eggshells?

 

“Would you have wanted me there, really?”

 

I’m afraid to make eye contact when those words leave my lips, because I know it was the wrong thing to ask and _so_ the wrong time to ask it. Not because I don’t think he did, I just can’t imagine why.

 

“No.”

 

He clears his throat, shifting his body upright on the smooth leather upholstery, and the only surprising part of that response is how readily I find myself accepting it.

 

“No, I don’t think I would have, but… but it just would’ve been nice to know you were there. Y’know, in retrospect.”

 

His voice sounds so genuine, so heartfelt. And I have to look at him, because I need to know if this is some sort of joke. My heart sinks when a goofy grin smears its way across his lips.

 

“It was a fuckin’ bomb ass party, dude.”

 

“Mm-hmm.” I grind out, struggling to suppress the hurt. “Sucks I had to miss it.”

 

And now I take a drink from the tumbler, instantly retching at the unexpected taste of strong alcohol in the glass, Bryce bursting out in laughter at the look on my face.

 

“Dude, what the fuck is this?”

 

“Calm down, man, it’s just coke… with a little Johnny Walker blue label from dad’s liquor cabinet. Good shit, right?”

 

I swallow thickly, the cocktail leaving a bitter taste in the back of my throat that I suppose must be a trademark of fine liquor.

 

“I guess…” I mutter, grimacing at the quantity of the concoction still left over.

 

“Well don’t waste it, dude. You know how expensive that shit was?”

 

No, I have no idea.

 

And he knows that.

 

We’ve never really drunk before, not liquor anyways. It’s always been beers stolen from his dad’s minifridge or wine coolers illicitly obtained from gas stations towards the outskirts of town. This stuff feels different; stronger, forbidden. Like I’m already getting a buzz and I’ve hardly let it settle in my stomach. But I guess that’s my fault for not eating anything before drinking.

 

Bryce chuckles, and summarily chugs half his glass; half as challenge, half as conquest. In response, I down as large a gulp as I can muster; it’s not as much as Bryce drank, but it’s a far better headway than I’d get by sipping it.

 

“Don’t chug it too fast, dude. I don’t need you throwing that shit up all over the carpet when it hits you.”

 

“O-oh, okay... Sorry.”

 

I keep my gaze focused down into the glass, and I’ve really never seen ice so clear. I wouldn’t know it was even there if I hadn’t felt it clicking against my teeth. Must be another aspect of fine drinking, not seeing the ice, being able to see straight through... I don’t think this glass was completely clean, there seems to be a spot of dust on the bottom. I scrape my nail on it, testing to see if the specks are on the inside or outside.

 

“What about you?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“What did you do to celebrate the start of summer break?”

 

I scrunch my brows, thinking back to that week. I know I didn’t do anything specifically for the purpose of celebrating like Bryce would, but maybe even the slightest instance of an event could be dressed up as such? Regardless, nothing comes to mind. I had spent most of the weeks following our falling out hiding at home, generally avoiding most people. Spent every single night lying awake, anticipating some form of shitstorm from our peers to come flooding at me through calls and texts. A shitstorm which, thankfully, never came.

 

I really didn’t want to admit that.

 

“I- uh, I hung out at Monet’s for a bit. Flirted with this girl. Don’t remember what her name was, but…”

 

“Atta-boy, Foley!” Bryce bellows, slapping his hand on my back hard enough for it to sting and I can’t help the pained whine that leaves my lips. Fuck, this stuff is kicking my ass, but the relaxing heat spreading through my veins feels nice. I take another mouthful, eyes squinting at the embittered burn in my mouth. Jesus, I didn’t realize liquor could be this _gritty_.

 

“What’d she have?”

 

_Fuck._

 

“Um… she was shorter, big tits, blonde, like the kind you get in a kit, not natural…” I’m hoping this sounds convincing, ‘cause I really hadn’t thought this far ahead.

 

“No, dipshit, I meant what kind of coffee did she order?”

 

“Oh, uhhh… I dunno, maybe a latte or something?” I groan. “Why do you wanna know?”

 

“Just askin’, no need to get all bitchy.”

 

“Sorry, just… long night.”

 

“Yeah, I’m sure. You and your mom are always fighting and shit. Makes me feel grateful that mine’s hardly ever here to ruin my fun.”

 

He grins into his glass, drinking deep.

 

“Mmm… where are they anyways?”

 

“I dunno, Belize, I think. Bridgette wanted to go to the Caribbean this year, and knowing Nora, she’d want to go somewhere more rural than the Bahamas. She’s always had a bit of a soft spot for the simple folk. I guess that bit’s genetic.”

 

He shakes me roughly with his hands, the motion making me feel like my head is swimming. It feels like my brain is melting, vibrating from the inside out. The feeling spreads to my skull and I have to hold it in one hand to remind myself that it’s stationary, solid.

 

“What about your dad?” 

 

I feel him tense up, and I’m thankful the glare he’s boring into the carpet isn’t aimed at me. I can imagine laser beams focusing through his eyes, burning into the carpet until he burns a hole all the way down through the Earth, cutting through stone and rocks and magma before bursting through the other side of the planet like a beam of fiery death.

 

“You feelin’ okay?” He laughs, pulling me out of my thoughts. God, I must have drifted off and… shit, he’s still talking.

 

“Didn’t realize you were such a lightweight, wouldn’t have put so much in your drink.”

 

“I’m fine, just… probably shoulda eaten before…” I raise the glass to my lips, cutting off the meandering sentence.

 

“So, what, did ya fuck her?” The sly smile on his face gives me chills paired with such a brazen question, and I fight not to spit out my drink. “That girl, not your mom. Unless…”

 

Okay, I have to punch him in the arm for that one. “Dude, that’s fucking sick.”

 

“Calm down, bro, just fuckin’ with you.” He laughs, rubbing the spot where I hit him. I hope I didn’t hurt him… I just shake my head at that thought, burying my face into my arm. I couldn’t hurt Bryce any more easily than he could hurt me.

 

There’s a familiar, yet unexpected click and I look over to the source of the sound. The aquarium starts to hum a little bit, before bubbles are start to float from the bottom all throughout the enormous tank. They float in narrow streams, up through the colorful rocks and underwater flora decorating the tank. The fish dance around the bubbles, almost like they enjoy it. Like it’s their long-awaited entertainment, or something. I have to admit that’d be pretty freaky to experience by my estimation. I can almost imagine it now, floating in a glass prison gazing out into a void of things I couldn’t understand, stuck there for days and days. When all of the sudden, bubbles just start floating by, up to the surface of my prison. I’d probably be inclined to play with the bubbles too. They’d be an almost welcome reprieve in such a simple life.

 

“Sometimes I wish I were a fish…”

 

“Who the fuck says stupid shit like that?” Bryce asks in disbelief, and I turn to look at him in surprise.

 

“What?” I ask, reluctantly preparing to go on the defensive, but the whine in my voice betrays that I’m not in the mood to defend myself in a verbal confrontation.

 

“This dumb shit here,” he gestures to the TV, pulling his arm from around my shoulders, and I find relief that his comment was directed toward something the advertiser said.

 

_Wait, what? How could I not… No, I must’ve imagined…_

 

Bryce stands and crosses the room, gesturing emphatically at the screen as the salesman does a demonstration of whatever gizmo he’s advertising. It seems like some sort of new type of exercise equipment, but the colors on the TV make me too nauseous to look directly.

 

“Look at that shit form on that rowing machine, dude’s gonna fuck up his back doing it like that. Does he really think he’s convincing anyone to buy it?”

 

He looks to me for solidarity and I nod in as much enthusiasm as I can muster. An amused grin spreads across his face.

 

“Damn Justy, you look fuckin’ cocked.”

 

He comes back over, almost cautiously so, eyes locked on me. Do I have something on my face? Are my clothes dirty? Wouldn’t be surprised if they were, I’ve been wearing this same outfit for like three days now. His eyes flick down and now I can see he’s looking me over, and I can’t help but feel self-conscious of my state of dress. Even in his pajamas he’s perfectly coiffed. I must look like a homeless rat.

 

He sits back down on the couch, close enough that I can feel the overwhelming heat of his body through my faded jeans. God, I must be cold, because I find myself unconsciously gravitating towards his warmth, though I have the decency to stop before he can realize what I’m doing, before I get close enough to _feel._ I can’t imagine what he would do to me if I invaded his personal space like that.

 

Well, I suppose I can, but I really don’t want to.

 

“You’re dripping with sweat, dude.”

 

His voice is low, his smirk inviting, and I find myself leaning in a bit closer.

 

“C’mon, take your hoodie off, stay a while...”

 

He makes a grab for my hoodie and I flinch from his touch. I scoot away from him in my panic, and now there’s a good foot of distance between us. The leather of the couch is chilled like ice under me and it makes me shiver. For a brief second, when I was moving away, I’m pretty sure he looked angry, like I was defying him or something. But the look on his face when I look now reminds me of the sort of disapproving look a teacher gives you when you crack a joke in the middle of their lecture.

 

“What the fuck’s your deal, Justin?”

 

“Are you sure you’re not still mad?” I have to fight through anxiety to push the question off my tilting palate. I don’t think that in a million years I could have drummed up the confidence to ask, the alcohol must be having an effect on my confidence, though the laugh he gives in response doesn’t do much to help in that regard. Maybe I’m slurring more than I thought?

 

“Mad? What the fu- Look, Foley, I may have reacted poorly at the time, but I don’t recall ever being explicitly mad.”

 

His words strike me like cold water, and the part of me that desperately wants this conversation to end is fighting a losing battle against my liquor-inflated sense of indignation.

 

“You punched me in the face...” My voice sounds too small, too _hurt_ and then my vision is blurred by tears and I hate how open I’m being about this shit. Is this why he made me drink, so I could open up and we could get this embarrassing shit out in the open?

 

Now Bryce won’t look at me. He’s turned around, hand to his face and I’m not sure if he’s just fidgeting or stifling a laugh. Either would be preferable to the enigmatic torture of not knowing which.

 

“Look, I- “

 

He starts, but the words stop like a cork is trapped in his throat. Is the alcohol starting to get to him too?

 

No. Wait.

 

There’s knocking.

 

Someone’s knocking on the front door, almost banging. Precise, authoritative thumps reverberating sharply through the foyer into the living room.

 

I’d know that kind of knock anywhere.

 

“Cops…” I mumble. But Bryce is already halfway to the door by the time I’m talking and I just give up on the statement when he pulls it open without hesitation.

 

Oh yeah. Sometimes I forget it, but Bryce knows how to talk to cops. Mostly because they actually listen. And he has no reason to fear them. He’s the kind of person they actually _like_ to look out for, that they actually _want_ to talk to. Just another Walker family perk.

 

I’ve had more than my fair share of run-ins with cops over the years. Sometimes they stop me on the street when I’m heading home, but usually they just come straight to my house. Typically, instead of knocking, they just kick the door in and start barking orders, guns drawn and ready to fire before our brains can even process what’s happening. Even saw one of mom’s boyfriend’s get shot when I was 7.

 

His name was Terry. He was one of the nicer guys mom had brought home, and he hung around us for a while. I don’t really remember what the relationship was like between him and my mom, since I was too young and I’ve never dared ask Mom about it since.  However, I do remember that he was actually pretty good at being nice to me. He seemed to actually like me a bit; took me out for ice cream and brought me places like parks and the circus.

 

He would watch me often, back when my mom was at work. Back then, she actually tried to work for a living, though I can’t remember for the life of me what she was doing. I was playing with a stuffed Winnie the Pooh in the living room when the cops burst in. I don’t think they ever saw me. I got scared and hid under the couch.

 

Apparently, they were expecting to bust a meth lab or something, so they went to check the kitchen first. Terry was making me a PB&J for lunch, so of course the first thing they did was ‘disarm’ him of the butter knife he was using to spread the jelly, ripping it out of his hands and making the plate fall in the commotion. They shoved him out of the cramped kitchen, manhandling him into the living room and making him fall flat on his chest. They pinned him under their knees and handcuffed him on the spot, like he was some sort of deranged animal. He had a gimp leg from his time in the military, so when they forced him up, prone on his knees, they interpreted his pained cries and slow movements as threats and ‘resisting arrest’ and promptly shot him three times in the chest while his hands were still cuffed behind his back.

 

I watched them take the cuffs off him as he bled out on the floor. He was looking at me, curled under the couch, squeezing the stuffed bear tightly to myself. I think he wanted me to help, to come out and show them I was there, to bear public witness to the injustice. But I didn’t think they were doing anything wrong. I didn’t want to get in trouble for interfering. I didn’t know what a gun did, I didn’t know what gunshots did to your insides, how badly he was hurt. I honestly thought they were trying to help him. Back then, I thought that what cops wanted to do was save people. But no, they were just trying to arrange the scene, make it look like just another druggie gone violent. They even took his fucking dog tags and threw them in the trash.

 

Long story short, there’s a laundry list of good reasons I don’t like talking to cops. And the fact that Terry can’t be anything but a number on that list makes me want to punch every fucking pig I see right in their smarmy fucking faces. Craning my neck towards the door, I strain my ears to hear their conversation, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. Just calm, quiet words exchanged between two people, and I have to wonder if the person at the door is even a cop. The flashing lights visible through the open door are the only solid evidence I have, but I couldn’t imagine another reason for them being there. Something, something, Occam’s Razor…

 

Bryce and the person at the door share a laugh and then the door closes and the locks click back into place. I can hear the sound of heavy boots walking back down the steps.

 

A car door shuts.

 

An engine revs.

 

The flashing lights disappear.

 

And the cop is gone, brushed off with the relative ease of removing an errant crumb.

 

“What’d they want?” I ask when Bryce reenters the room, but his body language screams ‘fucking pissed’ and the tension is back in even stronger force. It swirls around me, and I’m stuck choking on its toxic miasma.

 

“Neighbors saw you creepin’ outside the house.”

 

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. My jaw just flutters uselessly in response. I’m trying to look at his face, to read his expression and know more clearly what he’s feeling. But it’s too garbled, like his face has a pane of frosted glass in front of it. The melting feeling is back, and it keeps growing with each passing second.

 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He approaches me with clenched fists, body hunched and menacing.

 

“I-I’m sorry, I…”

 

“Why do you always have to go around making a fucking spectacle of yourself? Why can’t you just be a normal person for 5 minutes? Is it too much to ask that you don’t drag the fucking _cops_ to my house at two in the _fucking_ morning?!”

 

Everything is tracing itself, leaving stains in the air after it moves. He’s shouting more words now, but they’re dissolving into cacophonous clouds before I can read them. He’s in front of me, all red and yelling, reminding me of the last time I fucked up this bad. I pull my hands up in an effort to protect myself, an instinctive impulse. I feel his hands grip tightly around my wrists and it hurts. It hurts so much and all I can think is that there will be bruises. I can’t tell what’s happening around me anymore. It’s all too much, I’m drowning in sensory overload, brilliant blinding white searing my vision. God, it feels like I’m dying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fire Breather - Laurel


End file.
